Cardinal: A Trip-trip-triptych
Hi there!
I took some time off from The Thread. But today, it’s back. Who knows what’s in store week to week. But here we go! I offer an essay today. Hope you enjoy it and I look forward to hearing your response — or just hearing from you regardless. It’s been a minute.
Peace!
Andrew
Cardinal: A Trip-trip-triptych
The cardinal perches on the windowsill inches from the pane, shifts his weight from side to side, looks at his own reflection, and cocks his head. When we entered the elevator my daughter crouched low, wrapped her arms around her knees, closed her eyes, and said, I’m allergic to elevators, they make me itch, so I’m going to hide here, and the doors closed, the elevator began to move, and I wanted to save her somehow, yet I realized my skepticism of elevator allergy kept me from having enough empathy to act. There is no conclusive study on whether external stimuli provoke introspection, or if a disposition for introspection moves outward in search of stimuli.
This morning I entered the kitchen and immediately felt disappointed and angry to find the coffee pot wasn’t full of fresh coffee, no one had set the timer the night before, which is one of my nightly routines, setting the coffee pot for the following morning because I know how good it is to wake up and find fresh coffee already made, yet here I am, disappointed and angry and fully aware that I am the object of my own disappointment and anger due to my own failure, which, I am also very aware, is not as irreparable nor as consequential as my emotion in the moment briefly leads me to believe. Humanity exists between two urges: one toward the abstract and the other toward the particular, one toward a sense of detachment, aware that all things will pass, aware that we are dust specks in deep space and deep time; and the other toward a sense of location and presence, this skin our only skin, these sensations and pleasures and provocations the only real thing we may get the chance to experience. Two recliner chairs sit in a ditch in front of the abandoned house, each one with a thin layer of snow slowly melting into the faded blue corduroy fabric.
No field of biological science has yet to identify a species whose evolution was driven forward solely by the need to explain oneself and be fully understood. The sycamore has no leaves, several dead branches hang suspended by lower branches, and broken branch pieces lie scattered around the trunk. Last night after dinner my wife kissed me on the lips, my son said, Gross, do you two have to do that? and I replied, No, we don’t have to . . . we want to . . . we get to.
~ ~ ~
Humanity exists between two urges: one toward the abstract and the other toward the particular, one toward a sense of detachment, aware that all things will pass, aware that we are dust specks in deep space and deep time; and the other toward a sense of location and presence, this skin our only skin, these sensations and pleasures and provocations the only real thing we may get the chance to experience. Last night after dinner my wife kissed me on the lips, my son said, Gross, do you two have to do that? and I replied, No, we don’t have to . . . we want to . . . we get to. The cardinal perches on the windowsill inches from the pane, shifts his weight from side to side, looks at his own reflection, and cocks his head.
No field of biological science has yet to identify a species whose evolution was driven forward solely by the need to explain oneself and be fully understood. When we entered the elevator my daughter crouched low, wrapped her arms around her knees, closed her eyes, and said, I’m allergic to elevators, they make me itch, so I’m going to hide here, and the doors closed, the elevator began to move, and I wanted to save her somehow, yet I realized my skepticism of elevator allergy kept me from having enough empathy to act. Two recliner chairs sit in a ditch in front of the abandoned house, each one with a thin layer of snow slowly melting into the faded blue corduroy fabric.
There is no conclusive study on whether external stimuli provoke introspection, or if a disposition for introspection moves outward in search of stimuli. This morning I entered the kitchen and immediately felt disappointed and angry to find the coffee pot wasn’t full of fresh coffee, no one had set the timer the night before, which is one of my nightly routines, setting the coffee pot for the following morning because I know how good it is to wake up and find fresh coffee already made, yet here I am, disappointed and angry and fully aware that I am the object of my own disappointment and anger due to my own failure, which, I am also very aware, is not a failure as irreparable and consequential as my emotion in the moment briefly leads me to believe. The sycamore has no leaves, several dead branches hang suspended by lower branches, and broken branch pieces lie scattered around the trunk.
~ ~ ~
Last night after dinner my wife kissed me on the lips, my son said, Gross, do you two have to do that? and I replied, No, we don’t have to . . . we want to . . . we get to. When we entered the elevator my daughter crouched low, wrapped her arms around her knees, closed her eyes, and said, I’m allergic to elevators, they make me itch, so I’m going to hide here, and the doors closed, the elevator began to move, and I wanted to save her somehow, yet I realized my skepticism of elevator allergy kept me from having enough empathy to act. This morning I entered the kitchen and immediately felt disappointed and angry to find the coffee pot wasn’t full of fresh coffee, no one had set the timer the night before, which is one of my nightly routines, setting the coffee pot for the following morning because I know how good it is to wake up and find fresh coffee already made, yet here I am, disappointed and angry and fully aware that I am the object of my own disappointment and anger due to my own failure, which, I am also very aware, is not as irreparable nor as consequential as my emotion in the moment briefly leads me to believe.
The cardinal perches on the windowsill inches from the pane, shifts his weight from side to side, looks at his own reflection, and cocks his head. Two recliner chairs sit in a ditch in front of the abandoned house, each one with a thin layer of snow slowly melting into the faded blue corduroy fabric. The sycamore has no leaves, several dead branches hang suspended by lower branches, and broken branch pieces lie scattered around the trunk.
There is no conclusive study on whether external stimuli provoke introspection, or if a disposition for introspection moves outward in search of stimuli. No field of biological science has yet to identify a species whose evolution was driven forward solely by the need to explain oneself and be fully understood. Humanity exists between two urges: one toward the abstract and the other toward the particular, one toward a sense of detachment, aware that all things will pass, aware that we are dust specks in deep space and deep time; and the other toward a sense of location and presence, this skin our only skin, these sensations and pleasures and provocations the only real thing we may get the chance to experience.
What I’m currently listening to: Noah Kahan, Yo-Yo Ma, Dua Lipa, JOSEPH, Zach Bryan, Steve Miller Band, The Frames
What I’m currently reading: Courtney Faye Taylor’s Concentration, James K.A. Smith’s How to Inhabit Time, Ocean Vuong’s Time is a Mother, Carl Klaus’ The Made-Up Self, Austin Kleon’s Keep Going, Ursula K. Le Guin’s Words Are My Matter